


Stay Here Til Sunrise

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Prompt: “Try not to look at it” and “Shut up and let me help you”“You’re making a mental checklist of everything you need to do when you finally stop somewhere - the first thing being calling Sam to let him know his brother got his arm broken trying to be a goddamn hero again, followed closely by getting to a bathroom where Dean can’t see you as you try to calm the fuck down.”





	Stay Here Til Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not a doctor and only newly certified in first aid, so please excuse my bad descriptions of emergency medical treatments. I did a fair amount of research + used what I remember the doctor doing when I had a similar experience as the reader, but it’s probably still not super accurate. Sorry!

“I want you to know that I’m only taking a little bit of pleasure out of driving this car, due to the circumstances,” you say in a rush, throwing the Impala into drive and peeling down the road, Dean in the passenger seat next to you.

“Great. Glad to hear it,” He replies through grit teeth. “Jesus Christ this hurts.”

“Yeah, join the club,” you mutter, your hand throbbing where you’ve got a large slash that won’t stop bleeding. You’re a little surprised you’re sound of mind enough to drive. You’re also sort of worried that you can’t feel some of your fingers on your right hand, but you decide to worry about that later.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, screwing his eyes shut and breathing out heavy through his nose. “Hey,” he says when he sees one of the signs on the highway, “No. No hospitals.”

“Are you out of your mind?” You ask incredulously, trying not to look at his arm that he’s favoring, holding it tight against his chest. “I can’t fix that for you. You need a doctor.”

You know he knows you’re right, if his silence is any indication. He also could have just passed out from the pain. It’s a toss up. You’re making a mental checklist of everything you need to do when you finally stop somewhere - the first thing being calling Sam to let him know his brother got his arm broken trying to be a goddamn hero _again,_ followed closely by getting to a bathroom where Dean can’t see you as you try to calm the fuck down.

It was too close. It’s always too close with the Winchesters. God, you could just kill Dean for throwing himself in front of you like that. If he hadn’t moved at the last second, the spirit you were hunting could have broken his neck instead of his arm, and you’re so angry at him for making you imagine what could have happened.

“My arm isn’t broken,” he protests. “It’s my shoulder. Just need you to pop it back in place and then I can stitch you up.”

“I’ve never done that before,” you admit quietly, not wanting to seem weak. You want Sam and Dean to trust you, even though you’re relatively new at this.

“I’ll talk you through it.” He’s quiet for a minute. “For fuck’s sake, pull over. I need this over with and you’re bleeding all over my damn car.”

You do as he says, pulling over down a two-track, hoping you won’t attract any attention this far out of town. You ignore the way your hands are shaking and hope he does too. You fumble with the seat belt before you can get out of the car, rushing over to the passenger side to help Dean out.

“I got it, I got it.” He says, trying to shrug you off, but you don’t let him, pulling him out of the car with his good arm.

Once he’s standing there, you watch as his eyes grow more and more concerned. You’re embarrassed to realize there are tears rolling down your face, the adrenaline from the hunt and all the other emotions from the day plus your injury catching up to you. “Hey, hey. None of that.” Dean murmurs, extending his hand towards you like he wants to reach for you.

“I can’t do this,” you say, eyeing his arm.

“Sure you can. Just **try not to look at it**.”

You snort. “Yeah. Good idea, genius.”

He smirks. “There’s that smile. Come on - the sooner you help me, the sooner I can help you.”

“Just… don’t let me hurt you. It already looks awful, I couldn’t stand it if I–”

“You won’t hurt me. Well, not much.” He grins. “Come on. You’re going to put your left hand, here,” he puts your hand on his bicep, “And you’re going to hold my wrist, here,” he gestures for your other hand. “As quick and as firm as you can, push up and in.”

“Dean–”

“Look, just… quick as you can, okay? Easy. You can do this.” His eyes are so earnest, so… sure. He’s got nothing but trust for you, and you don’t want to let him down.

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He smiles again. “Count of three.”

You nod. Dean counts, and after ‘three’, he sucks in a deep breath and you do just as he told you, trying not to look as you jolt his shoulder back into place. He lets out a sharp groan, his opposite hand going to grip his shoulder, his hand landing on top of yours. “Son of a bitch,” he says through grit teeth.

“Dean?”

He’s shaking his head. “Fine, you did fine. It’s just– it hurts. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

“Nothing to it,” you joke, cracking a smile.

Dean rotates his shoulder a few times, tentatively, and then he’s moving, opening the trunk with one hand. He digs around for a few seconds before he pulls out a battered first aid kit. “Let’s see that hand.” He’s so, so gentle as he takes your hand. “Okay, any numbness?”

You’re quiet, and he frowns. “Sweetheart, you have to be honest with me, okay? Can you feel this?” He squeezes the tips of your fingers hard, and you flinch a little, the sensation causing your cut to burn. “Good. That’s a good sign.”

“They are a little numb… tingly.” You tell him.

“Open your hand as wide as you can and then close into a fist. If everything’s okay, it should hurt like a motherfucker.” He grins.

“Dean–”

“Hey.” He ducks down a little bit to meet your eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

Something flashes in his eyes quickly before a tiny smile shows up on his lips, and for a minute you’re struck by how you don’t remember ever being with him like this before. It’s always jokes and sarcasm and cursing. This is more… intimate.

“Then do me a favor, yeah? Just… **shut up and let me help you,** would you? **”** The words are without heat, and you can’t help but laugh.

Once you curl your hand up and release it, you’re crying again, but Dean doesn’t say anything. He frowns. “We really should stop somewhere with a real bathroom and some light so you don’t end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster.” His lips quirk up.

“Nerd.”

He looks offended. “Just for that, I’m not buying you any pizza.”

.

.

.

You drive to the nearest motel. Your hand throbs, but you’re ignoring it, just trying to get you two somewhere in one piece. Dean goes into the office with a fake smile and a fake credit card to get you a room, and comes back out looking more tired than you can ever remember seeing him.

“Come on,” he says, “I need a drink and a bed, and you need stitches.”

Inside, Dean helps you wash your hand carefully, the soap stinging as it brings fresh tears to your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m crying so much.”

Dean raises an eyebrow as he pats your palm dry. “Long day.”

Back in the main area of the room, you both sit on the edge of the bed and he wordlessly hands you a bottle of whiskey he fished from somewhere in the Impala. He cracks open the top as you hold onto the bottle, and then take a long swig.

The burn is pleasant, replacing the tingling in your fingers with warmth.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” he says, pulling a needle and thread out of the first aid kit. He starts slowly, but the tug and pinch of it has you wincing. “Talk to me. It’ll keep your mind off it.”

“Talk about what?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Your favorite cereal, I don’t care.”

You snort. “Can we talk about why you jumped in front of me like that?”

A small pause in his stitches.

You continue, “Because if you hadn’t, your shoulder would be fine.”

He stops, his eyes meeting yours. “You had a knife thrown at you by something we couldn’t see. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there and wait for the next one to hit you?”

“I don’t know, I just… I don’t like that you took a hit like that for me.”

His hands still. “Look, that’s the deal you make when you hunt with me and Sam, okay? I’m not–” He stops himself, looking like he’s debating if he should say what he’s thinking. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you if I can help it.”

He goes back to his task, concentrating so hard his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he works. You’re both quiet, and you’re hoping you haven’t totally stuck your foot in it. It’s not like you don’t _like_ that Dean was there to watch your back. He’s right - the same knife that slashed you when it was ripped out of your hands by some ghost and then chucked at you could have killed you if he hadn’t been there. But you want him to think you’re capable. You don’t want to be a damsel in distress, no matter if Dean’s the one playing the White Knight.

“There-” he says, “All set. Let me get you a bandaid.” He stands, rummaging around in the first aid kit until he comes up with a small package, handing it to you. “A big bandage would be better to keep this clean, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“It’s fine. Thanks, Dean.” You say, still feeling uncomfortable after your short conversation.

A few hours and a large pizza later, you’re both full, a little drunk, and comfortable in the large bed, your shoulder knocking against his as you struggle to turn onto your side to look at him.

“You need help over there?” He asks, amused.

“Hand hurts,” you mumble, leaning into him a little more than you would if you were totally sober.

“Let me see,” he says, taking your hand and peeling back the bandaid. You can’t get over how gentle his touch is. For someone who’s normally so rough around the edges, he touches you like you’re something precious, and it has your heart beating double time in your chest. “I think you’ll live,” he murmurs, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you are to him, your head swimming a little as you subtly inhale the scent of him.

It happens so quickly, you’re not sure who initiates it, but the next thing you know, Dean’s got a large hand on the side of your face, barely touching you as his lips brush yours once, and then twice as he exhales and deepens the kiss. He deepens it quickly, making you practically melt into him before he pulls back, breathing heavily.

His eyes are still closed, brows furrowed, and you know what he’s going to do.

“We’re drunk.” He whispers.

“I know,” you say sadly. “Doesn’t mean–”

“Just–” his hand is back on the side of your face, “Don’t say anything. Not right now. It’ll keep.”

You’re a little hurt, trying to figure out if this is a rejection, but you’re so tired and your hand is throbbing. You’re not sure you could stay awake to press him on this even if you really wanted to.

“Fine,” you mutter, rolling over onto your side, facing the wall.

You can practically feel Dean’s eyes boring into the back of your head as he struggles to get comfortable, but soon his breathing evens out and you let your own eyes slip shut, too.

.

.

.

“Sweetheart, wake up.” A hand shakes your shoulder, and you jolt awake, propping yourself up with your bad hand before you realize what you’re doing. You yelp in pain, and Dean’s there, his concerned face the first thing you see when you remember where you are. “Easy, easy.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s the middle of the night. You were having a nightmare.”

You rub your good hand over your face, trying to wake yourself up. Somehow you’re in the middle of the bed, Dean basically having no room at all. “Sorry,” you mumble, “Your shoulder?”

He shrugs. “Hurts. I’m okay. Are you…?”

“Fine.”

It’s dark in the room, but you can just make out his face, his green eyes full of worry and… regret? It’s hard to tell. The air is thick with awkwardness and you just want to go back to bed and sleep off what’s sure to turn into a massive hangover by morning.

“Look, about earlier…”

“You really don’t have to do that.” You tell him quickly.

“I don’t regret it.”

You’re a little stunned. Not what you expected him to say.

“I just… you’re too important for me to mess this up by doing something when we’re drunk, or coming off a hard hunt, and I…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just– I don’t want you to think I regret it. That’s all.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles weakly. “You wanted to know why I would jump in front of you like that.” He shakes his head. “Seeing you in trouble like that… it scared the shit out of me.” He leans over to brush your hair out of your face. “I guess I sorta like you, kiddo.”

You grin. “Sort of, huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s two in the morning. Cut me some slack.”

“Nah, you like that I keep you on your toes.”

A smile. “Yeah. I do. Go back to sleep. We’re not getting out of this bed until sunrise.”

“Sounds good to me. Really good.” 

A kiss to your forehead that leaves you feeling warm all over is the last thing you feel before you drift off to sleep, Dean’s hand in your good one.


End file.
